Latest news with #Cairokee
Al-Ahram Weekly
13-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Al-Ahram Weekly
Angham to open third New Alamein Festival
Egyptian star Angham will open the third edition of the New Alamein Festival, an event scheduled to take place over six weeks between 18 July and 29 August. Angham will take the stage of the U Arena, the primary concert venue in New Alamein, on Friday, 18 July. The concert will mark the star's return to the festival after performing in its inaugural edition in 2023. A large orchestra under the baton of maestro Hany Farahat will accompany Angham in her upcoming concert. Angham will perform a selection of her most iconic hits alongside songs from her latest album, Tigi Neseeb. Released in July 2024, this 12-track collection marks her first new release in four years, following her previous album Nazh (2020). Throughout her illustrious career, Angham has produced an impressive catalogue, with 30 records to her name and countless singles. Besides Angham, the third edition of the New Alamein Festival will also feature a stellar lineup of top artists from Egypt and the Arab world, including Amr Diab, Tamer Hosny, Tamer Ashour, Marwan Pablo, Lege-Cy, and others. Syrian singer Assala Nasri will perform on 7 August, Egyptian rapper Marwan Pablo on 15 August, icon of Arab rap Wegz, on 22 August, while rock band Cairokee will close the festival on 29 August. New Alamein is one of Egypt's fastest-growing tourist cities, thanks to its strategic location on the Mediterranean coast and its massive urban development in recent years. The previous edition of the festival aimed to draw 2 million visitors and tourists. It was praised for its diverse mix of musical, cultural, and sports events. Follow us on: Facebook Instagram Whatsapp Short link:
Scroll.in
06-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Scroll.in
Voices from exile: ‘Do you know the Palestinian map? See, it is in my veins'
In May, I visited Jordan to meet family friends and see the elaborate rock-cut tombs of Petra. Soon after Israel's war on Gaza began in 2023, Jordan's capital of Amman had grown desolate, with tourism only sputtering back to life nearly two years later. Over the month I spent in Jordan, I received an education on West Asia. Jordan is geographically close to many of the countries I had only read about in the news: Israel, Palestine, Syria, Iraq and Lebanon. I skirted around these countries for weeks, as I visited different parts of Jordan to look at historical sites. I saw Jerusalem's skyscrapers and parts of Palestine from across the Dead Sea, parts of Israel from across the Jordan Valley and from northern Jordan there was a glimpse of the Golan Heights. Over several decades, waves of Palestinians have been forced out of their homes to take refuge in neighbouring countries. Many fled to the East Bank of the Jordan River to Jordan, making their homes and lives there. Today, roughly 60%-70% of the Jordanian population is of Palestinian origin. They live hyphenated lives. Some hold Palestinian ID cards but Jordanian passports. They take comfort in childhood songs, food and nostalgia. Even though life seemed calm in Jordan, for many I met, their 'idea of home' was under attack just across the King Hussein Bridge. Amman is barely a few hours away by road from Palestine. At a concert in Amman, I saw young Jordanians grow solemn as the Egyptian rock band Cairokee played Telk Qadeya (This Is an Issue), which drew an unflattering picture of the Israel-Palestine conflict calling out the double standards of the Western world. When the lead singer, Amir Eid, shouted 'Free Palestine' in the middle of the song, Jordanians raised their arms and cheered loudly. (Cairokee had its first big hit in 2011 with its soundtrack for the Arab Revolution, Sout-Al-Horeya [The Voice of Freedom]). Ever since the war started, I had joined my friends in showing outrage on Instagram over the Israeli occupation of Gaza. But the more time I spent in Jordan I realised I didn't actually know much about Palestine or what it meant to be Palestinian. I had only read about Palestine in books. From Raja Shehadeh's Palestinian Walks, I learned about the country's beautiful landscape. How every wadi, spring, hillock, escarpment, and cliff had a name, usually with a particular meaning. Some in Arabic, others Canaanite or Aramaic, evidence of how ancient the land was and how it had been continuously inhabited for centuries. Shehadeh wrote: '...The very thing that renders the landscape 'biblical,' its traditional inhabitation and cultivation in terraces, olive orchards, stone buildings and the presence of livestock, is produced by the Palestinians, whom the Jewish settlers came to replace. And yet the very people who cultivate the 'green olive orchards' and render the landscape biblical are themselves excluded from the panorama. The Palestinians are there to produce the scenery and then disappear.' I interviewed four people of Palestinian origin in Amman: a hip-hop artist, an NGO worker, a former interpreter and a disability rights activist. They had unique perspectives on work and life with shared ideas of identity and home. In the weeks since these conversations, Israel has escalated attacks on Gaza and has launched an air attack on Iran causing more death and destruction. It's a conflict that is now clearly visible over Jordan's skies. Alaeddin Rahmeh, 35 Born: Jabal Al-Hussein Refugee Camp, Amman Identity: Palestinian-Jordanian 'My parents were exiled from Palestine during the Nakba [the mass displacement and dispossession of Palestinians in 1948]. They went from Jaffa to Ariha with their families, and in 1967, they came to Jordan to the Al-Hussein Refugee Camp, one of the first refugee camps to be established in Amman. 'I was born and raised there. Initially, there were tents, and the refugee camp slowly developed using bricks and metal to cover the roofs.' Rahmeh's childhood was in the 'bubble' of a refugee camp. He grew up in a small house with two rooms with his parents and three siblings and went to school with other Palestinian refugee children. 'My grandfather used to be a farmer in Palestine. He grew lemons, citrus, oranges, and had a flower garden. Every time I talked to my grandfather about Palestine, he would cry. He said he had thought the family would leave home for one or two weeks and then eventually return, but we never went back. The Israeli occupation made it harder to return.' He has heard his grandfather recite poetry and sing songs about the beauty of Palestine. 'When I was a kid, I used to feel a lot against Israel. Mostly anger. But now, I feel hopeless. I feel like war machines are the winners. If you have military power you can do whatever you want.' When Rahmeh was in his early 20s, he saw hip-hop artists on television. It was the time of the Second Intifada, a major uprising of Palestinians against Israel in the early 2000s. Watching men spin on their heads as a break from relentless bad news on television, spurred in him a fascination with hip-hop culture. 'There is a break dancing crew in Gaza called Camps Breakerz. They are official therapists and they use break dance as a way to heal children in Gaza. They became very popular and there are many videos of kids dancing on the rubble.' Three times a week, Rahmeh runs a graffiti tour around Amman guiding tourists through stairways and narrow streets to point at wonderful street art and talk about the city's hip-hop culture. He explains how street art went from vandalism to art. One of the murals is of a young boy in Gaza dressed in press gear painted by an Italian artist called Levone. 'The Jordanian community started doing events to collect donations, to paint murals about Palestine, anything we can do, songs, poetry, even dance. We are trying to show solidarity and touch the people in Gaza.' For Rahmeh, home is a song and a vein. 'There is a song about Palestine that my grandfather used to sing: 'We have a home that lives within us, but we don't live in it.' Our home is in our blood but it is too far away to reach. So, Palestine is my home, it is my blood.' Rahmeh points to the veins on his left arm that are vaguely shaped like the Palestinian map. 'Do you know the Palestinian map? See, it is in my veins.' Laila*, 30 Born: Mato Grosso, Brazil Identity: Palestinian-Brazilian. Palestinian first, Brazilian second, living in Jordan. 'My family is from a village in Ramallah. When I was a kid, we used to go to Palestine every year to spend the summer vacation there. At the time we didn't understand a lot about the conflict but we saw how life was there. When we had to get from one city to another or one village to another, there were many checkpoints. Things have gotten a lot worse today.' From the ages of 10-16, Laila visited her grandmother's house every summer to meet family and hangout with her cousins. 'Over the years, the interrogation has gotten so much worse. Their [Israeli soldiers'] approach is very demeaning. They try to humiliate you, confuse you. It's a nerve-wracking experience filled with anxiety because you don't know what they are going to do and say. 'And the last time I visited, I was so scared I'd be denied entry and I was so grateful I was allowed in. To think the decision is in the hands of someone who despises your entire existence and would rather see you dead!' In the 1950s, Laila's grandfather had emigrated to South America, lured by the prospect of a better job. This is why today she doesn't have an Palestinian ID card but has to apply for a visa on her Brazilian passport. 'At the time, they were advertising a lot about South America, it was part of the things they did to get people out of Palestine. They said it had opportunities, a good place to live, and since the family didn't have money they thought it was a good idea.' Her father, also a Palestinian, had first emigrated to Colombia and then to Brazil where he met her mother. 'There were lots of communities, associations, and things like that centred around Palestine in Brazil. Today, in Ramallah, you will hear Portuguese on the streets.' Since the time the conflict began, Laila has heard from her family in the West Bank that things have gotten worse. There are a lot more road blocks and checkpoints. A trip that used to take 20 minutes, now takes two hours. 'People find it very difficult to get to work, to get to school, to move around. Suddenly they close the entries to towns, so people are stuck. They can't go in or out and they are just imprisoned. 'One of my cousins had to move to Ramallah, since the time he spent on the road was unrealistic. Now he has had to rent a room there. Otherwise, he was going late to classes, and it was affecting his studies.' In Amman, Laila works in an NGO in education policy. 'When the war started, me and everyone I know felt like what we were doing was pointless if it didn't centre around Palestine.' Her friend who was a veterinarian in Europe had lamented about wasting vials of morphine, leftovers after administering it to injured animals. 'She said when she had to throw away the excess, she thought of mothers giving birth in Gaza who didn't have access to basic medical supplies.' 'When I see people are dying in Gaza, I think that could have been my family. Gaza is made of refugees from different parts of Palestine, if we just happened to be from a different part, we could have been living in Gaza. We could have been that family that was entirely killed. I often think the person who is going through this looks just like me. They are starving and they have lost their entire family! How are we letting all this happen?' Laila's idea of home is her grandmother's house on a hill. It is two hours away from where she lives in Amman if there were no checkpoints. 'Home is being with my cousins, breakfast made by my grandma. She usually gets organic eggs and homemade ghee. Sometimes she puts zucchini, zaatar (a spice native to the Levant), olives, and tomatoes on the table. The olive oil is from our land, the ghee is homemade, cheese is homemade, the vegetables are from her garden. It all just tastes so much better. 'Even if today I had a chance to live in Palestine, I would live there despite everything. But now every time I go, I say goodbye to the house and goodbye to my grandma just in case I can never come back.' Khalil Anwar Hammad, 67 Born: Nablus, Palestine Identity: Palestinian-Jordanian 'My father and his family were in Yaffa. My grandfather was one of the rich people there. He owned a big orange garden and exported oranges all over the world. In 1948, when Israelis started the war, they moved to the West Bank, a city called Nablus. My mother was living there and me and my siblings were born there.' During the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, also known as the Six-Day War, Hammad's father, who was working in Saudi Arabia at the time, was unable to return to Palestine. He sent word for his family to leave Palestine. Khalil remembers the letter: 'Come as you are, don't bring anything, just the clothes on your back.' The family eventually came to settle in Jordan. 'My father and grandfather carried the key to their house in Yaffa. It was the old key, the long ones. Maybe it was the same key that opened all the doors since they were the same model,' Hammad said, smiling. 'Maybe we are happy here in Jordan but still as people say 'East or West, Home is Best.' But nobody can deny how Jordan has helped us. We are really one family.' Hammad expressed gratitude to the country that gave him everything. 'When I talk about Jordan and Palestine, we are one people, one tradition. Jordan is the only Arab country which gave the Palestinians all the rights as original Jordanians. We have ID cars, driving licences, and we can buy property and earn a living. Some of us have even become Members of Parliaments and ministers. Doctors, engineers, technicians, all graduated from these refugee camps.' Years before joining the logistics team of an international aid agency in Jordan, Hammad worked as an interpreter and translator. He got the chance to accompany a Japanese TV crew to Iraq and interview Sadaam Hussain. 'To follow the news in Jordan is like our daily meal. It's like three meals a day. We are interested to know what is going on and hoping that things become better for us and everybody.' At 67, his memories of Palestine may have faded but his loyalties are strong. 'I miss a lot of things, it was true that I was a kid when we left but I still have memories. My sister and I remember a man who would visit our home with his donkey carrying dairy products like yoghurt and milk. My maternal grandmother would prepare the milk, and leave the creamy layer with some sugar in a small bowl for me. I used to go every day to her home like a thief to eat it.' Hammad remembers the fresh fruit – the apricots, apples, figs and pears. He also remembers the rows and rows of olive trees that have been there since Roman times. 'There is a question to be asked as to why Palestine was given to the Jews. It is because it is a beautiful country. It has the Mediterranean Sea, the Red Sea, the Dead Sea, nature, forests, water springs and ruins.' He remembers the big mountain behind his home and the birdsong just before sunset. When the war started, Hammad admitted feeling hopeless about the future of Palestine. 'But we were surprised by the young generation. We didn't expect that they had all these feelings towards Palestine. Across the country and the world, they took to the streets in solidarity 'We are proud to say we are from Palestine. The pride translates from one generation to the next. Since 1948 till now, the idea of Palestine lives on. We never forget that Palestine is our country and one day we will go back to our country. If not my generation then the next one, if not them, then their children.' Sabreen, 45 Born: Bethlehem, West Bank Identity: Palestinian from Bethlehem 'I am from Za'atara, a small village south of Bethlehem. Most of the people are Bedouin so my tribe is originally from this area. It's a unique location, close to the Dead Sea, and there is a big mountain called Herodium. Most of the people living there are my family. I have my uncles, grandparents, and cousins all living in the same square. You get the feeling that you are all living in the same house.' Sabreen has lived in Amman for over 20 years but she still speaks Arabic like a Bedouin would from her village. She moved to Jordan after she got married and has three children. Currently, she heads the country operations for an international development mission. When she trained as an occupational therapist in Bethlehem University it was the time of the Second Intifada in Palestine. 'We were allowed to celebrate our college graduation for only 30 minutes. I remember they attacked the University. If I have to tell you the reason, I won't be able to define it.' As part of coursework, Sabreen and her classmates had to travel to different cities. She remembers travelling to Ramallah and Jeruselam through multiple checkpoints where she was often threatened to be killed if she even moved. 'I worked in a camp in Jenin which was attacked for several months by the Israeli army. I went there forty days after the Israeli army had exited the area but I could still smell the stench of death.' Her job was to support people who were injured and advise mothers with children with disabilities. In those years, Sabreen spent 12 hours traveling between Bethlehem and Jenin which would otherwise take two hours. 'I would leave my home very early to go through several checkpoints, we would just be waiting in checkpoints for no reason. It was very stressful.' She recalled a friend who had a hearing impairment who was killed at a Bethlehem checkpoint since the soldier was unable to recognise that he was hard of hearing. He was shot several times in the chest and the legs. Last year when Sabreen visited Bethlehem, her family was stopped at a checkpoint on their way back to Jordan. 'A female soldier opened the car and started shouting at my 12-year-old son asking him to show ID. She was speaking in Hebrew, which we couldn't understand. She was very aggressive and held a big weapon.' It was the taxi driver who intervened to explain that the child was still too young to have a Palestinian ID. 'I was freaking out that she would pull him out of the car, she was really aggressive and kept putting her hand on the weapon. All this for nothing, we were just passing the border to go to Jordan. You can't guess when a person may feel you are a threat to them and shoot.' Five weeks before the war began in 2023, Sabreen was working in Gaza on disability inclusion in services. 'After the war began, I received messages from people in Gaza asking why all the humanitarian organisations were leaving, and if they (Gazans) were all going to be left behind to die? I was so frustrated and angry.' In our conversation, Sabreen spoke often about the Palestinian resilience. 'I know that Palestinian people are resilient even if everything is miserable around them. If you enter Gaza, you will see that people have nothing but they somehow create life from nothing. If this war stops in Gaza, you will find people rebuilding their homes within days.' In this conflict, even food and clothing was political. 'Gazans have been kept isolated from everything. Israelis prevent people from wearing white for weddings. They are not allowed to have certain vegetables, and zaatar is banned. It's just a way to put people under pressure and make them feel they are worth nothing. And that they deserve nothing.' For Sabreen, home is where her family is – in Bethlehem. 'I was born there, I lived and studied there. My land is there. It's a place where I feel safe. Even with this war and this situation, I will keep going back.' (At the time of writing this piece, Sabreen was unable to return to Jordan after a trip to Bethlehem for Eid celebrations. The border was closed after Israel's attack on Iran.) Even her children feel a fondness for Palestine even if they were born in Jordan. 'I tell them never to feel afraid or hide that they are Palestinians. I tell them: Don't be afraid to say you are Palestinian and don't pretend you are only Jordanian. If you don't trust yourself, then don't ask people to respect and trust you.'
Identity
02-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Identity
Films That Feel Like Listening to Cairokee
Some songs feel like they were written for the big screen, and no one does that quite like Cairokee. Their lyrics aren't just catchy; they're real and full of emotion. You hear them and suddenly, you're in a coming-of-age montage, a messy breakup scene, or a revolution led by twenty-somethings who've had enough. So what happens when you flip the script? What if the song came first and the film was its echo? Here are 4 films that have the same soul as Cairokee tracks. Some are loud and rebellious, others soft and aching, but they all feel like they belong in the same universe. Let the playlist begin. Which film feels like your favorite track? El Hawa Sultan El Hawa Sultan is one of those films that reminds you how rare and slow-burning real love can be, the kind that grows quietly, and when it blooms, it's soft, simple, and impossible to unsee. Just like 'Layla', pure, warm, and filled with all the innocent emotions that best capture the love. Siko Siko Siko Siko is a brutally honest look at how hard it is to 'do the right thing' when the economy is crashing down on your head. It's messy. It's funny. It's tragic and no song sums it up better than 'El Sekka Shemal Fi Shemal', a track that doesn't glamorize the fall but lays it bare: life can drag you places you swore you'd never go, just to make it to the next day. 6 Ayam It gives us two lovers who keep meeting again and again, on the same day, in different years. Time and fate pull them apart, but the feelings never fade. It's slow and frustrating but it's real. And Nefsy A7ebek is the soundtrack to all of it: the longing, the fear, the weight of unsaid words. It's a song for the ones who felt it deeply but spoke too late. El Ba7s 3an Manfaz L Khoroug El Sayed Rambo This film isn't just about escape, it's about the fight we all know too well: the one inside, the anger, the fear, and the pull between staying good or giving in. No2ta Beida is about the days when the world pushes you to your edge, and you have to dig deep to find what's still clean, still human, still yours. Cairokee's songs have always felt like more than just music, they carry stories that are messy, emotional, and raw, the kind that stays with you long after the chorus fades. And these films? They echo that same feeling.
Egypt Today
24-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Egypt Today
It's Official: WATCH IT to Premiere Exclusive Cairokee Documentary 'Cairokee In The Road'
The mystery is finally solved! After teasing fans with a cryptic poster and raising endless questions, WATCH IT has officially announced that a brand-new documentary about Egypt's biggest rock band, Cairokee is coming exclusively to the platform on June 25. The documentary, titled 'Cairokee In The Road', promises an all-access look into the band's incredible journey — from their humble beginnings to becoming the voice of a generation. It all started with that black bus poster bearing the band's logo and the question, 'What do you think is coming next?' — a question that set social media on fire with wild guesses. Now, the answer is here. Fans will finally get a behind-the-scenes look at the highs, the struggles, the music, and the moments that shaped Cairokee's empire. The announcement comes just days before the band's massive 'Cairokee Empire' concert at Cairo Stadium on June 28 — making this documentary the perfect warm-up for what promises to be a historic night. So buckle up — the road to Cairokee's story starts now, only on WATCH IT!
CairoScene
03-06-2025
- Entertainment
- CairoScene
What If Tumblr Was Built on Mashrou' Leila, Not Arctic Monkeys?
So I grew up on Tumblr. It shaped the way I write. It shaped my music taste. And both of those things ended up shaping me into a music journalist, a career that started somewhere between obsessively reblogging The 1975 edits and being a hardcore Arctic Monkeys fan. I went to their concerts more times than I can count (still waiting to see Lana live… one day). Back then, my phone background was a grainy black-and-white picture of shirtless Matty Healy that I had to hide inside a folder on my Samsung Corby so my mom wouldn't find it. I had entire pages filled with 'aesthetic' gifs, lyrics in Courier font, and that eternal search for curated melancholy. So I had this random idea one day at work, and I sent out a quick survey, just asking my friends and coworkers if they remembered the Tumblr era. And they did. Deeply. Not just the photos and the filters, but the feelings. The obsessing. The quiet heartbreak we all romanticized at 2AM. Everyone had their version of it, but somehow the memories all rhymed. It felt like we were remembering something sacred we'd all built together. And maybe that's what we miss the most, this collective act of reimagining. So I decided to take it one step further: to imagine what Tumblr might've looked like if it had been built here. Around us. Around our music. Our lyrics. Our dramas. Because let's be real: we didn't just have the aesthetic, the makeup, the fashion, the deep stares out of taxi windows. We had the language. Arabic poetry can make you want to isolate yourself from the world and cry on the bathroom floor. We didn't need to scream 'Lovin' you is hard, bein' here's harder', we had 'Inta Eh' by Nancy Ajram in a goddamn nightgown. Why did Lana get the monopoly on sad-girl seaside rage in 'High by the Beach' when Nancy literally did it first? That's what this is, Tumblr-core reimagined. A world where the Middle East and North Africa shaped the internet's soft grunge aesthetic instead of watching from the sidelines. Where we didn't just reblog, we created the canon. What If Our Nostalgia Didn't Need Translation? Let's talk about it. The feel of Arab Tumblr would've been split into two parallel universes - one revolutionary, one romantic. But at their core, both were built on the same thing: feeling everything all at once. And for many of us, this wasn't an aesthetic we curated, it was just life. On one end, you've got revolutionary-core: the gritty grayscale of resistance. Protest footage reblogged with Arabic graffiti across the walls. Photos from the streets of Syria, Egypt, and Tunisia during the Arab Spring, tear gas clouds, raised fists, cracked asphalt and hope. Martyr dedications in bold white text on black backgrounds. Smoke curling in slow motion over lyrics like 'صوت الحرية بينادي'. Sadness, yes, but with purpose. Melancholy layered over memory, over movement, over mourning. And the soundtrack? Bands like Cairokee with 'Yal Midan' and 'Matloob Zaeem', whose rise was directly carved out by the revolution. The kind of music that made you feel like history wasn't something that happened, it was something you could scream into existence. Jadal playing in your headphones on the bus ride to a school that might be closed tomorrow because of political unrest. 'Akher Oghneya' lyrics scribbled in your notebook like a secret prayer. You'd scroll past rainy street photos of downtown Cairo captioning 'Kenna Netlaka' by Fayrouz. Or find an old radio playing protest songs in the background of a grainy kitchen snapshot. A Darwish quote pasted over a photo of a scribble 'قف علي ناصية الحلم وقاتل' The vibe was grief, but it was alive. Then there's fluffy-core - soft revolution. Glitter in tea glasses. Pomegranate seeds on Persian rugs. Cats stretching in window sills as the call to prayer echoed in the distance. Henna tattoos, evil eye bracelets, Tarot decks next to Nagat cassettes. The kind of mornings where you wake up on your teta's balcony to the smell of coffee and the soft hum of Fayrouz from a neighbor's radio, a memory so shared it feels collective. Girls in fake Doc Martens & skinny cigarettes (or shisha) typing lowercase captions like 'normal people scare me'. Books stacked on a nightstand, Gibran, Qabbani, and a half-read English translation of Rumi. The nostalgia wasn't performative. It was rooted in something tangible. Something that smelled like jasmine and sounded like hope in the background of a childhood memory. And the architecture? Already Tumblr-coded. Cracked walls with vines growing through them in Palestinian cities. Hand-painted ceramic tiles from Morocco. Yellowed photos of old balconies from Lebanon. Mashrabiya shadows in Old Cairo filtering sunlight like God himself applied a sepia preset. It was all there, the melancholy, the romance, the rebellion, long before hashtags or aesthetics told us it was cool. Arab Tumblr wouldn't have been an aesthetic we borrowed, it would've been one we invented without knowing. What If Our Fangirls Looked Like Us? Let's be honest: if you were on Tumblr, you had a secret fanbase. Whether you were writing moody poetry in the tags, or just reblogging edits at midnight, you were definitely hiding something. One Direction fanfics, Alex Turner thirst edits, maybe even a Lana Del Rey shrine. But imagine if our fanbases looked like us. Instead of The Neighborhood or 5 Seconds of Summer, we'd be posting Mashrou' Leila lyrics like they were gospel. Zooming in on 'Lil Watan' w 'Raasuk' and setting it in bold white Arial on a low-res photo of a protest in Beirut. We'd be crying over 'Shim El Yasmine' the way we cried over 'Robbers.' There'd be Jadal song lyrics in the captions of selfies taken on Retrica app with tangled headphones. Elmorabba3 edits floating around with glitchy VHS filters. Teen girls would be wearing their band t-shirts with denim skirts, fishnets, and that signature chipped black nail polish that says i overthink everything and romanticize heartbreak. And don't even get me started on the Arab girlie pop icons. There would've been a whole soft pink Tumblr niche dedicated to Sherine, Ruby, Nancy, Haifa, Elissa—dark hair, blonde highlights, lip liner, spaghetti straps. CD covers scanned and shared around like holy relics. Posters taped to every bedroom wall. Let's be real: Arab girls started all the aesthetics that are trending now (specially Y2K core). We just didn't get the credit. What If We Typed in Arabic? If you were on Tumblr between 2012 and 2017, you know that lyrics weren't just lyrics, they were personality traits. Black text on a white or pink background, no punctuation, always lowercase. Halsey said 'I found god / I found him in a lover' and suddenly everyone had a flower crown and a god complex. Lana Del Rey breathed 'we were born to die' and it felt like heartbreak had a soundtrack. Melanie Martinez had us romanticizing our trauma and crying in pastel, baby-doll fonts. Now imagine that energy, but in Arabic. Imagine posting the lyrics of 'Yumain O Leila' from Jadal, قلت نام وقوم تنساها ، او عد عيوبها تكرها، بس حتي العيوب بتحليها after a late-night argument with your highschool boyfriend. Arabic is already a poetic language, but when those lyrics hit just right, it's devastating in the best way. Heartbreak, nostalgia, identity crises, all already Tumblr, just waiting for the aesthetic treatment. If the Tumblr girls knew about Mashrou' Leila in 2014, their dashboards would've never recovered. What If It Was Still Ours? This piece started with a question, and a bunch of replies that said 'hey, I remember this too.' Maybe we didn't have a Tumblr-core Arab world in real time. But maybe we didn't need to build it. Maybe we already had it, in old Sakia concert flyers, in stolen lyrics in our Notes app, in blurry phone clips of someone covering an indie song in a bedroom somewhere. One Mashrou' Leila reblog at a time. One sad girl anthem. One grainy gif of Cairo at night. It's late. But it's here. And it's always been ours.
